


Until This Dream is Over

by untune_the_sky



Series: Soulmate AU [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky's Working Through Some Stuff, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Minor Self-Neglect, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Vaguely Paternal Bucky Barnes, Willful Obtuseness, mentions of torture, torture aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untune_the_sky/pseuds/untune_the_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>“I been sleepwalking, been wandering all night.<br/>Try to take what’s lost and broke and make it right…”<br/>“Burning House” — Cam</p>
</div><br/><br/>The asset does not have a mark.<br/>The asset has never had a mark.<br/>The asset does not actually know what the marks mean. When he hears his handlers and their scientists talk about them, he gathers they are a weakness.
            </blockquote>





	Until This Dream is Over

**Author's Note:**

> This was an experiment in purposeful tense-shifts and stream of consciousness writing, which I hope I pulled off. Tink described this as self-deprogramming, and that's partially correct. Bucky's working through some stuff. :)
> 
> Thanks again to Zippit, Tink, and Stina for looking this over for me. Additionally, thanks to Michael for fixing all my em dashes and AJ for listening to me facepalm about how long it got. :P
> 
> I tried to tag everything I could think of, but my brain is a little fried. If I missed something you think needs to be tagged/warned for, please let me know.

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset has never had a mark.

The asset does not actually know what the marks mean. When he hears his handlers and their scientists talk about them, he gathers they are a weakness. Thus, it’s for the best that the asset does not have one.

The asset is given information on Fury, Nicholas J.

Fury, Nicholas J. had a mark. It’s in the records. It was on his stomach, a building that grew from a flat line over his navel and soared into a skyscraper, tapering off as it climbed his sternum. It disappeared when he was forty-nine, and the World Trade Center fell.

The asset kills Fury, Nicholas J. Some part of the asset decides this is also for the best. Someone who has lost their mark, however great the weakness, surely wouldn’t want to continue on.

This logic is flawed.

The asset does not tell his handlers he decided this. He is not meant to make decisions or have opinions.

His handlers give him a new mission: Rogers, Steven G. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

The asset reads reports on Rogers’ World War II battlefield experience. He watches archival footage of Rogers’ debriefing after he woke from the ice in 2011. The asset watches whatever his handlers are able to bring to him. One of the scientists warns that the asset’s thought patterns shift while he watches the footage. The handlers disregard the warning. The asset does not falter.

Rogers, Steven G. tells the person sitting off to the side and out of frame, that he crashed his plane in the Arctic because it was the only way to save New York. He tells the person that he does not remember what happened immediately following the crash. He tells the person that he believes he fell unconscious due to blunt force trauma. The person asks if Rogers, Steven G. dreamed. Rogers, Steven G. says he did not.

The asset knows that this is a lie. One does not stop thinking purely because one is frozen. The asset knows this from experience. For some reason, this lie irritates him. He does not tell his handlers that he is experiencing irritation. The scientist attempts to warn his handlers again but is once more summarily dismissed.

The asset is thankful that his handlers believe in his training, his programming, and his conditioning so completely. It allows him, sometimes, to have a thought that he thinks is his own. Perhaps.

The mission is simple.

Rogers, Steven G. is simple.

The redhead is… complicated.

The asset does not recognize her. But. But he knows that he does not want to kill her.

Rogers, Steven G. fights well.

The asset appreciates the challenge. He is accustomed to long-range missions, assassinations that have shaped a century, and they are calming. They are also often very boring. He knows his handlers wipe his mind after each mission. It gives him a clean slate from which to operate each time they thaw him.

Fighting Rogers, Steven G. is not boring. It is almost a dance, in the end, and the asset hopes that someone outside the fight appreciates Rogers, Steven G.’s shieldwork and the asset’s own knifeplay. He is particularly proud of the knife flip that very nearly allows him to stab Rogers, Steven G. in the throat.

The asset does not stab Rogers, Steven G. in the throat.

The asset does not successfully complete his mission.

Rogers, Steven G. says a name.

The asset does not know the name.

For some reason, this seems to upset Rogers, Steven G., and the asset does not understand.

The complicated redhead shoots a rocket-propelled grenade at him. The asset assumes one of his own people dropped it. That person is very likely dead now. It’s for the best.

The asset does not tell his handlers that he felt pride.

The asset does not mean to ask about Rogers, Steven G. He knows that his handlers are not stupid. He pushes, though. He pushes and asks about the man on the bridge. Saying Rogers, Steven G.’s name aloud is, for some reason, difficult. The asset does not understand why this is so. He feels dazed. He feels confused. He does not understand that, either, but there is no way to hide it in the room with the chair and the scientists monitoring his vital signs, his brain activity.

The asset pushes too far. He knows this when his handler stands. He knows this when they push the bite block into his mouth and use more force than is necessary to make him sit back in the chair. He is already sitting in the chair; they do not need to force him to lean back. Yet they do. This is an unnecessary display of dominance.

The asset has never fought the wipes.

The asset knows they are painful. The knowledge is visceral, an intuition that lurks in the pit of his stomach and creeps out as the headpiece descends and curls around his jaw, his temple, his forehead. The electricity hums and the asset begins to scream.

 

* * *

 

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset has never had a mark.

The asset does not actually know what the marks mean. When he hears his handlers and their scientists talk about them, he gathers they are a weakness. Thus, it’s for the best that the asset does not have one.

The asset is given information on Rogers, Steven G.

The asset is given a mission: Terminate Rogers, Steven G. with extreme prejudice.

The asset is given information on Romanoff, Natasha A.

The asset is given a secondary mission: Terminate Romanoff, Natasha A. with extreme prejudice.

The asset knows that Romanoff, Natasha A. is not a real person. She exists but she does not. She is a gray place hidden amongst many black and white things. She is young and she is not. She is a child, small for her age. She is shooting a rocket-propelled grenade at him, stance perfect despite the bullet in her shoulder. He feels pride, a paternal thing that resides in an untidy part of his mind. She is precious, and he does not know why.

The asset does not tell his handlers that she is precious. He does not know why he keeps this information to himself. There is a strange emotion lurking in his rib cage. It is uncomfortable. He believes it is fear, but it could also be despair or anger. Whatever it is, it outweighs the pride. It has been a very long time since the asset felt… anything.

The asset knows that Rogers, Steven G. is very real. Rogers, Steven G. is, perhaps, the most real person _—_ thing _—_ the asset has ever encountered. He does not know why he thinks this. He will complete his mission regardless. He will not tell his handlers about the emotions that have decided to live in the hollows of his heart, the ventricles and atriums that are now full and the veins and arteries that have begun to push those emotions into his bloodstream. He will complete his mission regardless.

The asset will complete his mission.

The asset will _—_

The asset will _—_

The asset will _—_

The asset does not complete his mission.

The asset cannot complete his mission.

Rogers, Steven G. uses a phrase, a trigger of some sort, and the asset cannot complete his mission.

The asset cannot let Rogers, Steven G. die.

The asset cannot think of him as Rogers, Steven G. any longer.

The asset cannot breathe. He believes this is a result of the metal beam that fell on him and some damage that he took when he dropped into the Potomac. He ignores the emotions now rioting through him. He escapes. He seeks out his handlers. They will be displeased with him, but it is safer with them than with the emotions. He needs to tell them _—_

The asset needs to tell them many things. But when he arrives at the fall back location, no one is there. He waits.

The asset waits and waits and waits. No one comes for him.

The asset learns that his handlers are dead thanks to a very small, very old radio.

The asset discovers that the emotions in his chest can migrate up to his throat, can tighten the muscles there and make it even more difficult to breathe. They can also cause him to make noise, a soft sound that he would categorize as one of extreme distress were it coming from anyone but himself. He does not categorize the sound.

The asset curls up in a corner of the safe house and wraps his arms around his knees. Perhaps he can suffocate the emotions. They are suffocating _him_.

The asset hears laughter but there is no one there to laugh.

The asset realizes the laughter is not a present sound but a memory. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The asset lets the quiet darkness take him.

 

* * *

 

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset has never had a mark.

The asset knows that these are the first things he thinks every time he wakes, whether from natural sleep, sedation, or cryo.

The asset knows these are true things even though he does not know what it means that he does not have a mark. That he has never had a mark.

The asset does not know what the marks mean.

And yet. There is a part of the asset that has latched onto the memory of laughter even as he tried to ignore it. He tried to drown it out with exhaustion and pain and unconsciousness, but it did not work. His mind followed the laughter as he passed out and it found eyes. Blue eyes.

There was a flash of green (her eyes were so, so green, especially when she smiled) and red hair, but the laughter did not belong to the tiny girl with the knife, and so the asset ignored her in favor of following the laughter to the rest of the memory. He found the laughter and the eyes. The blue eyes.

A blond boy laughed, gesturing at the pale, pale skin of his left bicep. There was something there.

The asset struggled to see it clearly. The memory was very hazy around the edges and he was not sure, he did not know. The asset did not know anything. But the blue eyes crinkled at the corners, vibrant, and the blond boy laughed again. The asset finally managed to see _—_ he saw fists. Small fists clenched tight and raised to fight.

“They used to just be hands,” the blond boy said, still laughing. “They changed the other day. Now they’re this. What d’you think it means?”

“That your soulmate’s just as much trouble as you are, punk,” the asset replied.

The asset blinks and the memory is gone.

The asset cannot breathe, he cannot, it is not a thing that is possible because the asset knows. The asset knows the fists and he knows the blond boy and he knows the man the boy will become and he cannot _breathe_.

Wheezing, panicking, the asset knocks a hole in the wall to his left when he jerks his elbow backward but it does not help. Nothing can help, nothing will ever help again.

His vision tunnels, graying out and then edging toward black at the corners of his eyes and he is not mission ready, he is not operational, he cannot continue his mission and he cannot breathe.

A voice.

A voice in the back of his mind.

The asset thinks it is his own. He cannot be sure.

The voice is worried.

“Breathe, it’s okay, it’ll be alright, just _—_ just breathe with me. Everything’ll be okay.”

And then the voice whispers numbers, soft numbers, and the asset finds himself following the instructions and the numbers and the rhythm the voice sets almost by accident. Almost as though he has done this before. And breathing still hurts, but that is likely his broken ribs and not the emotions crowding his mind now. They are insidious, the emotions, and he wants his handlers, he wants the chair, he wants the violence that precedes the calm.

His life is a backward saying: the storm before the calm. He is the storm _—_ always the storm, never the calm. He leaves destruction in his wake.

His life.

His life is.

The asset has never considered his life before. He does not think he remembers enough to have a life.

This is Rogers’ fault. This is his fault. He used the trigger, he woke the latent programming, he stalled the asset’s mission, he brought down the helicarriers, he killed the asset’s handlers _—_ he looked at the asset like the asset was a person, not just a weapon to be aimed.

Another emotion forms, pushing the others out of the way as it bubbles upward from his gut. It is a weightless brightness that has him pressing the back of his head against the wall behind him as wetness sticks to his eyelashes and turns them into spiky triangles. He closes his eyes to make the wetness go away and seeks out sleep again, still curled in the corner because it is safer there, away from everything else.

 

* * *

 

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset has never had a mark.

The asset is no longer sure he believes this.

The asset wakes clutching his left arm, his flesh hand gripping his vibranium shoulder so hard his knuckles have gone white and the white has bled down the tendons on the back of his hand.

The asset believes he _had_ a mark. He knows he no longer has one.

The asset is trembling. He recognizes this as withdrawal and he thinks of the scientists. So calm, in their white lab coats with their clipboards, always hooking drips into the IV catheter to keep him calm and compliant. So calm.

It has been three days. His handlers are dead and he has not eaten. He is not mission ready, he is not operational. He is in pain.

He had a mark.

The asset clenches his left hand, the gears and plates whirring softly.

The asset had a mark. What was the mark? He does not remember. He wants to be calm, he wants the drips, he wants IVs and the needles, the scientists and the handlers. He wants them to put him back into cryostasis so he can rest, so his body can still and his mind can dream.

Rogers said that he did not dream while he was frozen and the asset knows he lied because the asset always dreams when they put him in the tank and flip the switch.

The asset craves the chill and the peace that envelops him as the ice glazes over his eyes.

The asset knows that will make it easier for him to remember and he needs to remember. He _has_ to. He has to remember because he had a mark and he doesn’t remember what it was but it was important. It was a weakness but the asset thinks it was a weakness he wanted, a weakness that would make him stronger everywhere else, everywhere the weakness was not. It does not make sense but his life is a backward saying, the storm before the calm, and the asset knows he is alive and he has a life he has never considered before. What was he living for when the handlers thawed him and put a weapon in his hand? He does not remember the mark so he does not remember the life or how to live but now _—_

But now _—_

The asset hurts and he does not think it is entirely physical.

The asset wants the drugs and the people who gave him the drugs, but he knows that if he somehow manages to find them, they will take away the realization that he had a mark, they will take away the blond boy and the redheaded girl. They will take away the emotions and the headache and the tremors but now the asset is not sure that’s what he wants. He isn’t sure that’s what he _should_ want. What should he want?

The asset pushes himself up, back braced against the corner, his body hunched forward, flesh hand still holding his metal shoulder.

The asset acknowledges the pain in his ribs, the pain in his head, the pain in his flesh shoulder from having popped it back into its socket when he first came to this safe house, the pain in his legs. He acknowledges them, then places them in a box inside his mind and seals the box. The asset does not allow himself to feel pain until it will no longer impede his mission. He refuses to acknowledge the thoughts and emotions clamoring through his mind and forces himself to move. There is nothing useful in this safe house, not even a mattress. It was meant to be temporary, a secondary location in case their primary extraction point was compromised.

Apparently everything has been compromised.

The asset needs information. He needs more information than he can get listening to the very old radio. He also needs supplies and equipment.

The asset is still trembling as he checks the window to make sure it is late enough for shadows to elongate but not so late that stores will be closed, then opens the door and leaves the safe house. He returns to the bank. He returns to the vault. It has been stripped. Everything of consequence is gone. The chair is gone. There is no electricity running to the bank, all the lines were cut. They were very _neatly_ cut.

There is another spike of pride.

The asset knows _—_

The asset knows _—_

The asset knows the complicated redhead does not remember.

Feeling the headache pounding behind his eyes, the asset leaves the bank the way he came, avoids the cameras and the watching agents. His next contingency plan involves a dead drop and a cache of weapons. There is cash, but no identification.

The asset will make do with this for the time being.

He steals clothing from a line in someone’s backyard and hides his tac vest as well as his new weapons before approaching a military surplus store. He is quiet. The man behind the register watches him but not closely, not suspiciously. It has been three days since his handlers made their move and failed, since _he_ failed. It has been three days and he is gaunt. He pays the man and exits the store.

Supplies acquired, the asset changes into clothing that is not stolen. Then he approaches a grocery store but he pauses.

There are cameras here. It is dangerous to be caught on cameras. His handlers failed in their gamble and he does not know what that means, not really, he has no context, but a voice in the back of his mind is telling him it’s best to avoid the stores with their cameras.

The voice whispers information and statistics to him, warns of the _intelligence community_.

The voice tells him he must be very careful.

It is his own voice, but it is not. He does not understand but he also does not question. It is the same voice that helped him remember how to breathe.

A food truck catches his eye as it prepares to close for the night, and he buys them out of the last of their tacos. He does not remember ever eating a taco before. He does not remember eating anything but the meal bars his handlers gave him. The tacos do not sit well with him initially; his stomach cramps uncomfortably after he has eaten three of them. He takes the rest of them back to the safe house after collecting his hidden weapons. There is no refrigerator in the safe house, but he knows he will need to eat again. He will need to eat soon. Pulling his knees up to his chest as he settles in his corner, the asset presses his sweaty forehead against them and counts his breathing the way the voice in his head told him to.

The asset must focus on attainable goals and immediate necessities. If he tries to think of anything else, he will be lost to the emotions.

A half hour later, the asset eats three more tacos. They are very spicy. They have fish in them. He does not think that is normal, but it does not make him sick, so he eats the last two and then rests his head on his raised knees again. The trembling comes and goes. He does not think it will stop tonight, probably not tomorrow, either. He thinks maybe if he can sleep he will avoid being conscious for the worst of the withdrawal.

 

* * *

 

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset _had_ a mark, once.

The asset does not remember what it was but he does know that it was very, very important.

The asset recognizes that the mark was a weakness. It had to be. It is possible that the asset built his life around this mark, when he had a life that he knew how to live. But that can’t be possible, the asset does not know enough, he does not _remember_ enough.

If he believes what his handlers have told him, he has never had a life. His beliefs have begun to fall through. Evidence insists his prior beliefs are false. So perhaps he had a life, after all.

The asset wonders if he will have enough memories to have a life again, assuming he had one before. That is a dangerous assumption.

The asset is shaking now, not simply trembling. There is nothing easy about this. It is not the first time he has experienced withdrawal, he thinks. There is a sense memory somewhere within him of intense nausea. He feels ill but he believes it has been long enough since he ate the tacos that, if he gets sick, he will not actually throw them up. Maybe. He can’t be sure.

Pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees multi-colored bursts of light against the backs of his eyelids, the asset attempts to regulate his breathing. He is uncomfortable, alternately hot and cold, damp from sweat soaking into his new clothing but his mouth is so dry his throat clicks as he swallows. He needs to find somewhere else to stay, somewhere with a shower. The asset thinks he smells but he cannot be sure. He thinks his nose has acclimated to the odor.

There are places that will accept cash in exchange for anonymity and the asset takes advantage of that. He rents a room in a motel. It is dingy and there is mold growing in the sink in the bathroom as well as strange black spots on the wall near the bed, but the water in the shower is hot. The asset turns the faucets so it is as hot as it can possibly be, sheds his new clothing, and steps past the shower curtain. It is ripped at the corner. He does not care. The water hits his back and he flinches. There is a very small bar of soap and he appreciates it because he has none of his own.

The asset uses the entire bar of soap lathering his body and then his hair to scrub away days’ worth of grime. He cannot even find it within himself to regret such excess because the feeling of being clean is amazing, so much better than he remembers.

Wait.

Does he remember?

The asset blinks water from his eyes, steam billowing around him, and waits.

The laughter comes again, the blond boy with the blue eyes and the infectious smile. When had his smile become contagious? Had it always been that way? The asset doesn’t know, he can’t remember, but.

But the asset remembers illness. Not his own. He remembers the blond boy and _—_

The boy wasn’t laughing, his eyes weren’t open, his skin was pale and clammy.

The asset feels worry arc through him. It hits the base of his spine and shoots upward, a violent surge of pure fear riding its coattails.

The blond boy was not breathing.

“C’mon,” the asset whispers and the voice is his but not. “ _C’mon_ ,” he repeats, and it is desperate, it is panicked. The asset knows that the boy has to breathe, he knows it like it’s a mission, it’s the only mission that matters and if he fails _—_

If he fails _—_

He can’t fail. He can’t. But the asset has failed so much recently, he is so confused.

The asset watches as the boy’s chest moved slightly, a rattling inhale that sounded so painful the asset’s chest twinged in sympathy. “That’s it,” he said, the words almost crooned. ‘That’s it, just breathe, Stevie.” The boy’s chest rose and fell again, that same terrible sound audible in the winter quiet. And it was winter. It was cold. It was so very, very cold. There was a draft. Icy air pushed through a gap near the window, a loose board in the floor, that spot near the roof that Mister McGurty promised he was going to fix. Only Mister McGurty died and the blond boy was sick, so sick.

Climbing onto the bed, the asset pulled a thin blanket with him. He tucked the other blankets, just two of them though both were heavier than the one he had, around the boy and then covered them both with the third, thin one. He wrapped himself around the boy. The asset knew this was for warmth. Warmth was important and tomorrow, tomorrow if the boy survived, the asset would go somewhere. He would do something. Widow McGurty would stay with the boy and the asset could go somewhere to do something to get the money for the medicine the boy needed. The asset didn’t know what he would do, but he knew. He knew he would do _anything_. The boy was his mission and he would succeed because failing the boy was not an option. It had never been an option.

The asset comes back to himself in the shower, the water running cold, and swallows.

The boy. The blond boy. He is important.

The asset turns the water off, shivering, and uses a thin towel on a hanger near the shower to dry himself. He is pale all over except for the bruises. His ribs are covered in red-green smudges, as is his shoulder. There is nothing he can do about that, so he moves back to his bag of new clothing and pulls on enough to stay warm. He is suddenly so very, very cold, like winter has come again, like he’s lost time and suddenly finds himself back there, back in that drafty room with the boy who might never wake up, who _has_ to wake up. But the asset knows that is not the case. He knows. He pulls the extra blanket from the tiny closet and wraps it around his shoulders before climbing beneath the sheets on the bed. He tucks his head under the pillow and shivers.

The asset is not being proactive in maintaining a secure perimeter.

The asset is not being security conscious.

The asset does not care.

The asset wants to know what his mark was. He wants to know about the boy. He does not want to sleep. He does not want to lay there shivering. But he is tired, his body betrays him, and he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset _had_ a mark, once.

The asset remembers someone else’s mark, but not his own. Everyone has a mark. They do not always meet the person who made the mark.

The asset is putting together the pieces of information from the memories and things his handlers have said. He does not know if the conclusions he is drawing are accurate, but they are what he has for now.

The asset remembers the blond boy. He remembers the boy’s mark. It was hands. It was fists. It was hands wearing gloves and holding a pistol. It was hands wearing gloves and holding a rifle. It was hands wearing gloves and holding a sniper rifle.

No.

The sniper rifle is wrong.

The asset buries his head further under the pillow to block out what light exists in the room around him and focuses.

The sniper rifle is wrong because it’s not on the boy.

The asset forgets how to breathe again, but he does not need the voice that is his and not his to remind him how to do it because he sits up straight, the pillow falling to the floor, and.

And he thinks of Rogers, Steven G.

The blond boy was small. The blond boy had hair like straw. He was ill. His soulmate was just as much trouble as he was. The blond boy’s mark had been the gloved hands and the rifle the last time the asset saw it. He knows he saw it because it was on the same skinny bicep as the fists. There was no laughter in the boy’s blue eyes when the asset saw them last, when the boy’s mark changed to a pair of hands and a rifle. The asset knows the boy’s eyes were sad.

There was no laughter.

And yet.

The asset knows the fists and he knows the blond boy and he knows the man the boy became and he cannot _—_ but no. He can. He can breathe now.

The asset hears something tear and looks at his metal hand. The sheets and the blanket are both torn. He did not mean to do that, but he knows the boy and he knows that the boy is Rogers. He knows this because the eyes are the same and the memory tells him, tells him that he did not want the boy to die, the boy was his mission and suddenly. Suddenly things make a great deal more sense.

Rogers was the asset’s mission before the handlers put a target on his back but he was a different kind of mission.

Rogers predates the handlers.

Rogers had the trigger phrase because he knew the programming, the deepest programming the asset has.

The asset feels something uncoil within him at this realization. He ignores the part of his mind that is trying to tell him that his logic is flawed. He is not shaking as badly as he was, but his head still aches. The pain is no longer debilitating.

The asset needs information. The asset needs food. The asset needs to find out where Rogers is.

The asset dresses in clean clothes and abandons what he wore into the motel, taking only the clean things in the duffel bag from the surplus store. He checks the money he has and knows that it is not enough for what he needs. The asset leaves the motel and pulls a baseball cap down low over his eyes in the hopes that it will obscure his face. Cameras, he knows, are everywhere.

There are Internet cafes. He could steal a laptop. He could just go to a public library.

The asset hides his duffel bag of clothing and weapons.

The asset goes to the library.

The asset knows that the gloved hands and the sniper rifle were on the blond boy’s bicep when he was not a boy anymore. The sniper rifle was on Rogers’ bicep. The asset does not know how to process this and so he does not allow himself to think about it. Instead, he pastes on a shy smile and does not try to hide himself. He is hiding, but he is not trying to hide. Hiding in plain sight. People will see what they expect to see. They see a quiet man. That is all they need to see. Disguises do not have to be elaborate to be successful. The first rule of being on the run is not to run.

There are computers available for use. The asset does not have to pay to use one. The world is oddly amazing. The asset is not sure why he feels mildly surprised that these electronics are available for daily use for free. He knows that he has seen better computers. He knows that he has used better computers. But there is a part of him that still marvels. There is a part of him that makes a remark about science fiction and the future and the asset finds himself frowning at the computer screen. He is not confused, he simply does not understand this tangent his mind has gone off on. So he brushes it aside and focuses instead on clicking the correct icons and bringing up the websites that he knows will carry reliable news stories.

The asset is… not bewildered. The asset was there for the destruction as the helicarriers shot one another from the sky. The asset knows about Rogers. The asset knows about Romanoff. The asset knows things. But the asset does not know what to do with the sheer amount of information that is now available.

Romanoff, Natasha A.

She put the entirety of her organization’s information on the Internet.

She exposed them all, his handlers and hers. They are, both of them, now handler-less. They lack a hand to point them at a target, to pull the trigger.

This information does not distress him.

Again, the spike of pride. It is accompanied, this time, by a thought.

 _I taught her well_.

The asset understands this thought. He remembers the tiny girl with the knife, the green eyes, so green, sparkling mischief at him from beneath a brilliant red fringe. He remembers snapping the neck of a man. The asset hears a soft noise, a quiet sound of distress. It is not a whimper but he knows that it came from him. He remembers the man. He remembers what he found the man attempting to do. The asset remembers a rage so blinding that he killed the next three people who came to investigate the disturbance before they sedated him. He was only punished for the last three he killed, not the initial one. He told his handlers he did it to protect another asset from exposure to stimuli that had, statistically, been proven to be detrimental to the development of _—_

The development of _—_

He does not think they believed him.

They removed him from the training program.

The asset knows that they placed him in cryostasis.

The asset does not think they adequately wiped his memories prior to freezing him. Staring blankly at the computer in front of him, the asset considers this, follows this thought to the next.

The girl was not so small anymore. She was still young but older than when he killed a man to protect her. He estimated her age to be pubescent. Her eyes _—_ still so green _—_ did not laugh any longer. She did not smile. The asset did not believe she remembered him. The asset acknowledged and set aside a strange pang of regret as he returned to the program to train the tiny spiders in all the ways they might sting to kill.

Still, he _is_ proud.

He _did_ teach her well.

Something tingles on the inside of his right wrist, and the asset pauses, his eyes focusing on the article in front of him detailing the massive information dump from the SHIELD servers. He rubs absently at the sensation as he reads. It’s almost an itch, but not quite. Not quite. He glances down to make sure nothing is wrong with his wrist and he freezes, eyes widening minutely before he pulls the sleeve of his shirt down to cover the thing there, the thing that wasn’t there a moment before.

The asset does not have a mark.

The asset had a mark.

The asset has one now.

It is small, only an inch in diameter, silver on the outside with a gear-like shape in gold on the inside. There is a wisp of blue that curls around it, almost a crackle. The asset remembers this small thing. It shorted out his arm when she threw it at him, kept him from killing her. There is a thought _—_ there was something in this spot before. Something, once. He does not remember what it was. He thinks his handlers took it away. He does not know how they did that.

His metal thumb pressing on the small mark on his wrist through the cloth of his shirt, the asset clears his throat and attempts to focus again but he cannot.

The asset has a mark. It is small, but it is significant. It is important.

Wiping the browser history from the computer even though he didn’t do anything worthy of note, the asset leaves the library. His search for information was marginally successful but he requires more and he cannot allow himself to continue being distracted by memories. Memories, apparently, bring marks. The asset does not understand them, marks or memories. The asset knows the marks mean soulmates _—_ the voice that is his and is not said that in a memory _—_ but this mark does not feel the way he thinks it is supposed to feel. Perhaps his mark is broken.

Perhaps the asset is broken.

The asset believes the scientists and technicians would recommend a complete recalibration of his hardware as well as a complete wipe. They would also undoubtedly return him to cryostasis.

This is the longest the asset has been out of the cryo chamber that he can remember. His memory is spotty, full of holes, but he thinks that this is also significant.

The asset walks. He is hungry and attempting to avoid the larger areas where the cameras lurk. The cameras are to be avoided whenever possible. He knows this. He must _—_

He must _—_

The asset walks.

The asset finds another food truck. It is not the one from before but it also has tacos and the asset buys six of the ones with fish in them because that did not make him sick last time. He eats them quickly, allowing enough time between each to ensure the food settles properly. He retrieves his weapons and his gear, then finds a tall building with a flat roof.

The asset climbs.

The asset climbs and climbs and then settles himself in a corner of the roof that’s protected from the wind by a small building. He cleans his guns, sharpens his knives, mends his tac vest, and contemplates what his next move should be.

It has been a very long time since the asset contemplated anything.

Contemplation implies a certain amount of autonomy, the ability to make a choice.

The asset can stay here, on this roof, or the asset can climb down. The asset can stay in this city as it recovers from the destruction of the helicarriers or he can go elsewhere, he can go to a different city.

The asset does not know where he would go, but he knows that he could choose. He _could_.

His handlers are dead. The redhead whose eyes no longer laugh exposed some of the ones that did _not_ die. She could never hope to expose them all.

It is warm outside.

There is a bone-deep weariness that has settled behind the asset’s eyes. He thinks it would be good to sleep a true sleep, not a desperate sleep or one full of memories and shaking withdrawal. He thinks he could sleep here, on this roof, as the sun sets in the west and paints the sky in beautiful streaks orange-gold-red. He is not awake to see the purple-blue-black of night fall, nor the stars that wink into existence and blanket the sky.

 

* * *

 

The asset has a mark.

It is small and it is colorful and the asset finds that he likes it, even though it doesn’t feel quite right.

The asset has a mark. This means the asset must know more about them. He must. Because he has one, now, and marks are weaknesses. He remembers that. He remembers thinking it might be a weakness that would make him stronger. Can there be such a weakness? Can there be a weakness that is not a weakness until it breaks? The asset thinks that might be something to think about later, when he is not trying to find out basic information about marks.

The asset hides his duffel bag and returns to the library. He does not search for this information on a computer because he knows he will be distracted by flashing pictures and provocative pictures and news to do with his handlers’ downfall. He will need to use one again at some point, but for now, the information he wants can be found in real books.

Real books smell of binding paste and thread, cloth covers and ink. They are dusty and some are so old that they are worn at the edges. There are stains on some of the pages and pencil marks on others. One book is full of yellow lines that highlight sentences.

 

  * _The first documented soulmark is believed to have been mentioned in Plato’s_ Symposium _, specifically Aristophanes’ Speech._
  * _Romantic soulmarks tend to be more dynamic than platonic soulmarks, often changing dramatically throughout each soulmates’ life._
  * _There is no official government agency which documents soulmarks, though doctors began recommending that soulmarks be tracked for various reasons in the mid-1800s._
  * _Medical professionals disagree about the impact soulmarks have on the psyches of those who bear them._
  * _Approximately ten percent of the population lacks a soulmark._
  * _Soulmarks, it has been theorized, first appear when both halves of the pair are born._
  * _There have been documented cases of soulmarks disappearing and reappearing after one half of a pair suffers some sort of massive trauma, whether physical or mental. The soulmark that reappears typically bears some minor resemblance to the original one, though it is often significantly changed._



 

The asset stops reading the book. He closes it gently and shifts it to the edge of the table where he’s sitting.

He does not have an arm.

The asset does not have an arm, but he has a mark now.

Would the wipes be considered massive trauma? They are very painful.

The asset cannot think about this now. The asset has decided upon a new course of action. He does not know why. He leaves the book there on the table and stands, exiting the library. He returns to the roof where he slept to gather his duffel bag and then drops to the ground. He is walking toward the train station when a flier catches his attention. It is just a regular piece of paper, but there is information on it and a color photograph. Simple advertising, the asset thinks. And yet, effective.

The photograph is of Rogers.

The information tells him that there is a museum. There is an entire exhibit devoted to Rogers.

The asset changes course and walks to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. It is not difficult to find, there are large signs in the streets leading to it. All of the signs have Rogers on them.

The asset pays to get into the museum, lifts the brim of his hat just enough so he will be able to look up at the displays without having to show his face to the cameras _—_ there are cameras everywhere _—_ and walks into the exhibit.

The asset forgets about the cameras.

There is a voice narrating the story of Rogers. There are people drifting through the exhibit, pausing here and there. The asset is frozen. The asset is looking at himself. The asset discovers that he is dead. He died. The asset has been dead for over half a century. The asset cannot _—_

The asset cannot _—_

The asset cannot _breathe_.

His injuries have mostly healed. The withdrawal is over, the drugs out of his system. The memories are quiet. Or they were. They were quiet but now he’s looking through a window that is actually a television that is _actually_ a time machine. He is seeing himself and he is seeing Rogers and there is information on his death, both of their deaths, but it is vague and the asset knows that Rogers lied about not dreaming while he was frozen but he doesn’t know why.

The asset watches himself, his hair is shorter and there are brackets to either side of his mouth from smiling. The asset sees crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughs in the video. The asset sees something intangible, there is something there that he can’t name but that’s not surprising. Oxygen deprivation impacts cognitive functionality and the asset hasn’t taken a breath in almost three minutes. His eyes water just enough to shock him into an inhale. They sting. He realizes he has not blinked in addition to not breathing.

The asset tries to calm himself. Gasping and choking in public is not hiding in plain sight. He turns to his left, his metal hand tucked into his pocket, fingers curled tight, and he sees Rogers. He sees himself again, but he’s not moving. He’s a painting. The asset sees others. There’s a bowler hat, a replica shield, a group of men that the asset knows, the asset knows them and there is something lodged in his throat, his eyes are stinging again, he thinks _—_

He thinks _—_

He _knows_.

The asset knows they’re all dead, all of them but Rogers. There is a plaque. It names them all.

The asset feels like each name is a bullet, each story of how they lived after the war, after his death, is a wound. They rip through him, they destroy the bits and pieces of conditioning that erased them from his mind. There were wipes and wipes and wipes and he refused, he refused, he _refused_ to believe anything his handlers told him, he remembers. He was so angry. He was so _angry_ and he knew they were coming for him but they never did, these men never came, and he understands it’s because Rogers died, too. Rogers died and the two of them took the heart out of this group of men and the asset doesn’t understand why he just thought that.

The heart is an organ, necessary for life.

The heart is not a metaphor.

It is not _—_

It is not _—_

But it was, for these men. It was for Rogers. It was for him. The asset swallows, slipping into a room that is dark. There are places to sit. There is a video. It is full of newsreels. It is like adding gasoline to a fire. Something breaks in the asset’s mind.

He watches the whole of the video.

The asset goes back to the exhibit. He forces himself to memorize each plaque, each speech, each interview, each scrap of information about these people he left, he was forced to leave, who left him, who left him with his handlers, who _—_ no.

No.

The asset makes himself memorize everything.

There is information about his soulmark. He already knew about Rogers’ soulmark, he could see it in his mind’s eye if he paused long enough, if he let his focus waver for a moment. He could see the hands, the gloves, the rifle. He could hear the question, Rogers’ question, after the rescue.

The asset did not realize he remembered being rescued.

“Hey, you alright?” Rogers’ voice hadn’t changed. His face was a bit fuller, but the eyes, the eyes were the same. So blue.

“Yeah,” the asset answered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, punk. I’m good.”

“Cause _—_ I dunno. I got _—_ I mean.”

The asset looked up sharply, brow furrowing. “You got what?”

“My soulmark. It changed.”

“Jeez, again? What is it now?”

“Here, look.” And there was the sniper rifle and the asset couldn’t let himself touch it because he knew the rifle. “Yours the same? No changes?” Rogers’ voice was odd when he asked that question, and the asset lied.

“Yeah, no change,” the asset said, but it was a lie, he _lied_ , why would he lie to Rogers? Rogers was his mission, had been his mission for as long as he could remember, the asset _knew_ that even if he didn’t actually have all of those memories. Why had he lied?

“That’s good _—_ lucky,” Rogers said, voice still holding that strange little note and the asset couldn’t parse it but he knew he’d have time. He’d have plenty of time to get everything figured out.

He had not had time.

The asset had fallen. He knew he’d fallen. He could hear the blast, feel the shield as it was ripped from his arm with the force of impact, felt himself falter, felt himself flung outward, grasping _—_

Grasping _—_

He held on for as long as he could but the metal bar’s attachments weakened and Rogers was there but the asset fell with the wind whistling around him.

The asset leaves the museum.

He takes his duffel bag and he goes straight to the train station. He buys a ticket to New York City and he does not wonder why. He knows why.

New York City.

Brooklyn.

These are places.

These are the names of places that he knows.

The asset knows that he knows them. He does not remember them, but he needs to be in them, he needs to find the apartment with the rickety bed and the thin blankets, the fire escape and the sad little tomato plant on the windowsill. He _needs_ that, he knows he does, if he can just get there _—_

If he can just find that _—_

The asset is on the train. It will take him three point five hours to reach his destination. He does not have anything with which to occupy himself. He stares out the window. Cities pass him by. Open fields and flat land, highways and forests and houses.

It is tinder bursting into flame, a star being born, another star dying in his mind as his thoughts flash to the hands and the gloves and the sniper rifle on Rogers’ bicep. He lied and he doesn’t know why. Emotions out of context flood him and he strains his eyes trying to see something beyond the soulmark superimposed on the back of his eyelids.

He can’t, he can’t see anything else.

 _That’s my rifle_.

It’s the thought he thought just before telling Rogers that his own soulmark had not changed.

The memories hit him hard, shoving their way through the words in his head, through the scattered thoughts he can’t force into any type of order. They careen through his skull, removing every other thought. They don’t rip the thoughts to shreds, that would be wrong, that would be so wrong.

The asset knows that there is nothing about his soulmark that was ever meant to rend and tear, his soulmark was all about mending, always mending.

No, the memories simply blank everything else out, whitewashing his mind until he can focus, until _all_ he can focus on is the mark on his shoulder. His left shoulder. He was born with it, a tiny little spool of thread. The spool was brown, the thread a blend of yellow and blue. No one could parse the symbolism but they knew it would all make sense once he met his soulmate. The marks always made sense when that happened.

So the asset grew with a little spool of yellow-blue thread on his left shoulder. The thread changed colors four times. Three times it went gray, once it went black. But it always came back to the yellow-blue blend and the asset knew people fretted about that kind of thing, those types of changes. But the thread always came back to yellow-blue, so the changes were never permanent, his soulmate was alright. He was twelve when he met Rogers, the little boy with the hands on his bicep. Rogers was thirteen and so, so thin, but he had a personality big enough for someone three times his size.

The asset liked him immediately.

His soulmark changed, the thread turning red.

Rogers said his changed as well, morphing from a pair of hands to a pair of fists. When he told the asset, the asset laughed along with him.

_Your soulmate’s just as much trouble as you are, punk._

The asset laughed and they went to school and they went home and they grew up together and it was good, it was so good.

Best friends.

The asset had a best friend. _Rogers_ was his best friend. His mission. Rogers was his mission. His mission predated the handlers. His friend predated them. He’d had a life. He’d had a best friend. He’d had a mark.

The thread stayed red.

Rogers got sick, Rogers nearly died, but the thread stayed red. The asset knew that meant something, he knew it meant that he and Rogers weren’t soulmates, they didn’t even have platonic marks _—_ they’d both checked. But that was okay. You could have a best friend without a mark, it was alright.

The asset reassured himself with that platitude. If he said it enough, if he repeated it until the words were etched into the inside of his skull, maybe that would make it true.

The thread stayed red and the asset went to war and war was terrible. War was a dirty business, dark and cruel, and he felt sorry for whoever his soulmate was, knew whatever mark they bore had to be an ugly thing now. He knew Rogers’ had changed before he shipped out, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. The asset focused on staying alive and keeping his men alive. They were doing pretty well, all things considered.

And then, one morning, he woke up to a searing pain on his shoulder and he thought _—_

He thought _—_

The asset _knew_ that something terrible had happened to his soulmate, something terrible because it _hurt_. But the mark wasn’t gone. The thread was still red. Only now there was a needle in addition to the little spool and the needle had been busy. A circle of red thread had been sewn on his shoulder, the line of it a quarter of an inch thick, and it hurt just a little when he touched it, but the spool was inside the circle, the needle threaded and ready to embroider something else. The asset didn’t know what. The stitches were very neat.

None of his men had any experience with soulmarks _hurting_ like that, but he still had it, it was still there.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” He asked no one, palm pressing against the fabric over the mark. Whatever his soulmate had done, it had to be big. He hoped he lived long enough to find out what it was.

But war was unkind, war was dangerous, war opened the door for grand heroics and forgot to mention the pit full of spikes hidden beneath the welcome mat. Hydra captured them, captured _him._ They took the asset prisoner and they worked him until he could work no more, they worked him until he collapsed. But they didn’t waste things, they didn’t waste him. That’s what they said as they picked him up and dragged him away from the assembly lines, the welding torches, the heat that came from building airships meant for bombs. Such bombs. The asset knew, he _knew_ they were huge, big enough, dangerous enough, to destroy cities.

Hell, they were big enough to destroy whole countries, entire continents.

And the guards dragged him away.

They strapped the asset to a table. They strapped him down and they attached electrodes to his head and neck and chest. He repeated his name, his rank, his service number, and his birthdate over and over again, but they weren’t asking him those kinds of questions. They didn’t want to know about the United States. They wanted to know what he felt when they injected him with this formula or that concoction.

Was it cold?

Was it hot?

What did he feel when they broke this bone?

Did it still hurt now?

How badly did it hurt, on a scale of one to five, when they stabbed him in the side and twisted the knife?

Five _—_

Five _—_

It hurt like a fucking _five_ , what was wrong with that ferrety little bastard?

The asset almost wished they’d ask him the other questions. He’d tell them everything he knew about the New York train system, the base where he’d gone through Basic, the higher-ups in the army, the formations likely to be used.

The asset _broke_.

He knew he broke. He was not proud, he was not strong, he just wanted it to _stop_ , please make it _stop_.

They asked him about his soulmark. They showed it to him asked questions and he didn’t know what to tell them. He just repeated his name and his rank and when they electrocuted him for the third time, he finally admitted that the black outline of a star inside the red circle was new but the spool of thread had always been there.

_Why is this important?_

And then something happened.

There were voices shouting and explosions, shots fired. The ferrety scientist left, he ran away clutching his papers and the guards abandoned their posts and the asset was relieved. He was so relieved. Perhaps they’d forget him, perhaps he’d be able to die, finally. That would be nice. It would be nice to rest.

But he wasn’t allowed to rest.

He had to protect someone _—_ someone important, someone.

He didn’t know who, but he knew he needed _—_

He _needed_ _—_

_Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. March 10, 1917._

Steve, Steve _—_

_I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were smaller_.

He had been. Once upon a time, his best friend had been smaller and this was a miracle but everything hurt and the asset fought down his panic as they made their way through the facility. It collapsed around them. A red face, a red skull _—_ _the_ Red Skull.

Yes. Schmidt, Johann.

The scientist. Zola, Arnim.

Everything changed.

War was terrible and painful and it broke him but Steve came to save him, to put him back together.

They escaped.

Such evil was not meant to exist in the world.

The asset remembered thinking that, thinking that war brought out the worst sorts of human depravity.

He ached. The asset ached and Steve asked him to join his special, hand-picked crew. Of course he said, yes. Of course he did. He ached and he wanted to go home but Steve needed him, Steve asked for him, so of course he said yes.

He woke up the morning after agreeing to join the Commandos to find that his soulmark had changed again. The thread was white and now the spool lived outside the red circle, it lived there and it had filled in the star. The star was white, the circle red, and the asset knew _—_

He _knew_.

The asset wished he didn’t know.

The asset wished he could forget.

The asset saw Steve’s shield and he knew what all the symbolism meant. Suddenly, he knew.

That was why he lied. He knew what Steve’s mark meant, he knew what his _own_ mark meant, and it was nothing good.

The asset blinks and is on the train. Not the train in the Alps, thank God, but the train to New York, to the city, to _his_ city.

The asset blinks and the asset is on the train.

The asset’s flesh hand is clutching his metal shoulder.

His handlers took his soulmark. They took the thing that bound him to Steve. They took it and he will burn the world down to make them pay for that, for making him into a weapon _—_ a gun _—_ and then pointing him at Steve, at his _soulmate._

He will kill them all.

But first.

First, he needs to reach the city, he needs to get to another cache, he needs to take out the three safe houses that he knows exist in Manhattan. Then he will work on getting other things organized. He needs time. He needs to do these things and then he needs to plan because there is an entire world of handlers to destroy.

The asset has a lot of work to do.


End file.
